Bum Wars, Part Deux

The continuation of Medieval Bum Wars: An “I Can’t Believe I Wrote This!!!” Original penned by sixteen year old me.

Previously on Medieval Bum Wars

The bums are a-gettin’ frisky

“The stick, Amanda,” Jenny instructed.  “Use the stick.  Beat the shit out of anything that moves and get us out of here!”

Amanda winds up her batting arm

I took a swing at the first bum who got too close, clocking him in the face.   He pitched forward, falling just short of my feet.

This preemptive strike seemed to have alarmed the others.  Some hopped back, some directed nervous glances at the bum I attacked earlier, who I gathered was their ringleader, for instructions.

I met the ringleader’s eye and raised the stick over my head, challenging him to make another move.   “You want a piece of this?” I spat, giving the stick a shake. “YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS?!!!”

“Yeah!” Jenny smacked me on the shoulder.  “You tell them what’s what!”

But the head bum’s got an ace up his tattered sleeves…

The ringleader rubbed his scruffy beard and whistled.  I turned my head, but not in time.  There was a flash of grey followed by white hot pain as a bum clamped down on my forearm.  I let out a roar like a wounded animal.

“Get him off me!” I screamed.  “He’s biting me!  The motherfucker’s biting me!”  I shook my arm violently trying to unhinge my attacker, but the biting bum held on, his one tooth digging into my flesh.

Jenny, winding up her one good leg, gave the biting bum a swift kick in the ribs.   The bum expelled a whoosh of air and scurried back into the crowd.    I rubbed the tender spot where he bit me; his tooth had punctured my skin and the wound was starting to bleed.

Poor Amanda, I hope she didn’t contract rabies…

“At your right!” Jenny shrieked.

I spun around just in time to see a coke can sail in mid-air. Acting on reflex alone, I swung my trusty stick and deflected the can, sending it sailing through the park and batting my first home run.

The coke can was followed by another and another as the bums pelted us with their recyclable products.   We dodged and swatted to the best of our abilities, but the aluminum kept coming, soda cans and water bottles rained down upon us like a hailstorm.

Bruised and battle sore, I ducked as a root beer can whizzed by my ear, tossed Jenny my stick, and ducked behind the shopping cart.

Jenny was shouting obscenities, swinging away with my stick in one hand and punching at anything bedraggled with her bare fists.  Her good leg was kicking at cans and any bum foolish enough to get too close to our cart. She was completely unruffled, charging ahead with her three limbs like an invalid warrior on an ass-kicking spree.

Enter: the Mace

I knew we couldn’t hold off the mob forever.  And then I saw it and my heart sank.   The metal spikes glimmered under the early morning sun, blinding us.

The bums saw it too, some shielded their eyes from the glare, some crouched in awe while others cowered and scurried like mice away from the light.  They began to part like a tattered grey sea, leaving an unobstructed path between us and their ringleader.

The ringleader stepped forward, his scruffy Velcro sneakers, held on to his feet by duct-tape, crushed the aluminum cans underfoot.

In the sudden silence that descended upon the park, the crushing sound of the cans took on an unsettling resemblance to the crushing of skulls.

I’m sure you’re rubbing your greedy palms together in suspense, “Gimme more! Oh great storyteller, continue your tale!”

Too bad! Medieval warfare isn’t fought within a single post. I’m serializing this bad boy. Charles Dickens and I, we’re like this (crosses fingers).

A teaser to entice:

“That oughta teach you to cuss around ladies, you damn dirty bums!”





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